


Gotham Will Fall

by KilltheDJ



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Parents Jack and Janet Drake, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Canon-Typical Violence, Cassandra Cain is Robin, Court of Owls, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Neglect, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Minor Character Death, Original Character(s), Tim Drake-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:02:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26318368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KilltheDJ/pseuds/KilltheDJ
Summary: Four years ago, Janet and Jackson Drake disappeared off the face off the map.Two years ago, Tim Drake donned an owl mask and became the youngest member of the Court of Owls, Gotham's best kept secret.And now, with a price on his head for his betrayal, and the truth about his parents eluding him, Tim's forced into a partnership with one notorious gun-slinging vigilante, and they're both in far over their heads.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 20
Kudos: 114





	1. preach all you want but who's gonna save me? i'm just the way the doctor made me

**Author's Note:**

> so! as one might guess, this doesn't particularly follow any canon, because dc doesn't know how to do it right so u have to take it into your own hands. anyway, tim is sixteen, and jason's nineteen here ! everything will make sense... eventually.

With the owl mask secure over his face, masking him from any would-be enemies, Tim Drake took a breath, and brought his gloved hand down from his mask, by his side.

The Court of Owls would not wait, and he wouldn’t force them to. 

The entrance to the underground mansion was filled with top of the line security; Tim didn’t bother smiling as he passed, flashing his ID badge underneath the scanner before entering. The guards wouldn’t be able to see it, anyway. 

On the outside, it seemed to be a museum; unused with far less maintenance than it needed, but just enough visitors to keep the world from questioning why it was still in business. Regardless, on the lower west wing, beyond fifteen guards and one lurking Talon, was a false accent wall, and an in-built scanner for ID badges and the like. 

Human error was so common, it was kept to the machines to keep the secret of the millenia. 

Beyond that door was a labyrinth of hallways, of imposing marble statues and immaculately clean diamond teak tiles, of  _ empty;  _ it was adorned with the watching eyes of the shadows, waiting, waiting for you to slip up. 

And then you would meet the Talon’s claw. 

Tim sighed, a quiet thing in a place like the Palace. It was an egotistical name, a play on their power, but it was one no one was willing to comment on. The Palace served their purpose, as would they, and therefore they wouldn’t speak a word. 

That was the rule, after all. 

Down the hallway, past the hypocritical statues of golden angels serenading the arrival of a God nowhere to be found, past the locked doors, was the Boarding Room, as it was called. 

Supposedly, it was for Court meetings, but truly it was a trial room, a place for judgement to be passed without punishment dealt until the guilty had left their trial. 

Timothy Drake was an Owl, of the Court of Owls, and took his seat among the top rows, nearest to the lonesome line of five seats, centered by the wall balcony with a balustrade railing. 

He was in no place to speak, no place to pass judgement; he wasn’t here for the fanfare, for the secret; he may be an Owl, but in truth he was a detective, and a detective with far more to his portfolio than the Gotham City Police Department could hope to conjure up. 

They didn’t know about the Court of Owls, and Tim would keep it that way, for now. 

As it was, he folded his hands in his lap, all too aware of the empty seats behind him; a lone son supporting his house in the time of the reckoning, a secret kept buried deeper than even the Court. 

“We are here to pass judgement upon those who have no loyalty to the court.” the voice echoed, identified as no one other than the Judge; she was faceless, the entity of the Court’s judgement, decision itself. 

The Judges may have their places, but she was the one who deemed innocent or guilty; she was the one who controlled the Talons. 

And, while he knew the names of almost every Owl in the room, he didn’t know hers. No one had ever seen the Judgement, but those who dared to find out had quickly met the Talons she oh-so-adored to send out. 

Slowly, the five judges trickled out of whatever secret entrance they had come from, glossy owl masks concealing their identity from the masses. 

Tim didn’t know what to call them; they weren’t like the Judge, but they weren’t like the rest of the Owls, either. 

They were something more, and yet less, important. It was impossible to say for sure, but he was almost certain that one of them had to be the Judge, though they had appeared while she’d been talking, mingling around the room before everyone took their seats. 

He sat alone, in the round wall balcony the Drake family had been assigned long before he’d even been a thought in his parents’ minds, watching with the same gaze as a curious owl. That curiosity, though, would kill him with a sharp claw if it showed. 

“Take your places.” 

The Judge’s voice wasn’t demanding, wasn’t harsh; it was simply an order, and one would be smart to take it. Despite the amount of money in the room, there wasn’t nearly as much intelligence; as much as Gotham’s socialites liked to think of themselves as smarter than the rest of the world, they didn’t know the half of it. 

And Tim wasn’t excluding himself from that; but at least he knew what he was, and he knew that he had to be careful to make himself seem as clueless as he possibly could be. 

Within two minutes, each Owl was present and accounted for, hundreds sat among the same round balconies Tim was in, stretching twenty balconies high and fifteen balconies long, with glass floors, a show of the Court’s money. 

The balcony of five, which Tim had taken to calling the Jury (it wasn’t all too fitting, considering the rest of the Owls were technically the Jury, but they couldn’t be the Judges, and he was fresh out of nouns to capitalize), sat among themselves, whispering, until the one in the center stood up. 

She was meant to be recognizable. 

The long, straightened blond hair reaching toward her waist, to the low-neck wedding dress she seemed to always be wearing, she was none other than Lady Cathlene Laylic, the last remaining member of the Laylic family. 

Tim would know; they used to be neighbors until she’d mysteriously disappeared, leaving behind nothing in her wake other than an empty mansion and a wedding band, a testament to her late husband. 

In a level, calm voice, she said, “Owl Teravin, to the glass.” 

_ The glass.  _ The glass flooring in the center of the massive room, the trial center, the flooring overlooking the underground river that had run through Gotham far longer than it had been inhabited. 

One day, the city herself would rise up and correct the wrong in her borders. But until then, it was up to people like him to recognize what was happening, to see what the Court of Owls was doing. 

_ Teravin.  _ That wasn’t the man’s actual name, first or last, because codenames were required for a  _ cult  _ that survived on its secretism and animity. 

Tim’s own codename was  _ Jacklyn,  _ a mutilated version of his middle name of Jackson. His parents had been in a similar manner, but they had long since been in use of them. 

Nevertheless, the man - Teravin - that had been called to the glass complied, a composed step in the wake of what was no doubt an execution’s verdict. 

The Jury looked toward each other, and then back at Teravin. Lady Cathlene hummed, her hands folded in her lap as she delivered the questions she was required to ask. “Owl Teravin, you have been accused of dealings in secrecy we have not condoned. Charges include attempted exposure, secret-trading with the enemy, and disloyalty.” 

_ The enemy.  _ Anyone who wasn’t in the Court was automatically labeled as the enemy, and even the Court itself could be considered the enemy when it became acts of domestic betrayal, as Tim watched. 

The man, to his credit, did not stutter; Tim couldn’t even see a trail of sweat. He’d seen this coming, then. Practiced. “I deny all charges. The Court is my first loyalty, and Gotham is my second.” 

Underneath the owl mask, Lady Cathlene’s face was unreadable, but Tim had no doubt of the frown befalling it. “There is your lie. Gotham is the Court’s loyalty, no one individual’s. An individual act for Gotham, without the approval of the Court, is grounds for treason.” 

The man pales, a prominent shake in his hands now that she's found a way to make him guilty. And guilt was not tolerated in a place like the Palace, where truth and liveliness were principles to be upheld to their full abilities. 

It was a load of bullshit, if you asked Tim, but his opinion on the matter was no one else’s business, and he wouldn’t make himself an enemy of the Court until it was time. 

“The Court will now sentence you,” Lady Cathlene said simply, sitting down in her chair, the entire Jury staring down the man on death-row. 

As if on cue, because they  _ were  _ on cue, an envelope was sat on the balcony banister in front of Tim, no doubt by one of the Court’s notorious assassins. 

Taking the quill pen, perpetually stuck to the banister, Tim wrote his verdict. The man didn’t deserve death, but Tim was far too outnumbered and he had a cover to keep; in his nicest scrawl, he wrote that the man deserved exile from Gotham. 

It was the closest he could get to something that wouldn’t damn the man. 

Regardless, the Talon took his verdict as soon as Tim had slipped the paper back into the envelope, no doubt delivering it and the other envelopes to the Jury Owl second from the far right. 

The Court was divided into five sections; each verdict in each section would be given to its respective Jury Owl; the Jury Owl would then decide what their section would like to see done with the person on trial, and then the Jury would discuss among itself what it should do. 

And, finally, the Judge would read out the sentence.

The process itself took twenty or so minutes, each balcony of Owls mingling together in an uncomfortable, imposing silence, waiting until each member of the Jury stood tall and proud, signalling that the discussion was over and the Judge would read her verdict to the rest of the Court. 

“Owl Teravin,” the Judge started, an echo following each syllable. “You have been found guilty by a unanimous vote. Your sentence has been decided; your membership, and your life, will be terminated. Effective immediately. You have brought dishonor and disgrace among your House, and therefore your sentence extends to them as well.” 

Before anyone could disagree, which was a death sentence in and of itself, three Talons were standing on the glass floor and holding the man’s arms, bringing him out of view; no doubt into what would be his execution room. 

While all this was happening, Tim chanced a glance toward the balcony where the man had come from, which had had three more people in it; there was no one. 

No doubt there was someone cleaning up the mess of blood their slit throats had made along the expensive flooring, but Tim didn’t dare think about it more than he had to; the bile that had risen in his throat needed to  _ stay  _ in his throat. 

The next Owl called to the glass was a woman they had called  _ Owl Geramire.  _ Her sentence was similar, though it was noted that it was her husband that had given the tip to the Court, and therefore her family would be spared her same sentence. 

The sentence was just as gruesome as the last, but Tim didn’t think about it. 

He needed to get information, and if he didn’t attend the same things, think the same things, as the rest of the Court, then there was nothing stopping him from being called up to the glass himself. 

By the end of the session, seven Owl members had been had to the glass and found guilty. one had been found innocent, though that was only by the account of another Owl who had denied the accusations with full evidence. 

That Owl hadn’t been in their balcony when Tim had looked over later.

Nevertheless, the Palace had seen its share of blood for the day, and the Court was dismissed by Lady Cathlene; not before she had issued another statement, with a blank mask serving as her expression. “Remember to read to your children, dears.” 

She knew not everyone had kids, or even family, in the Court. And by that same logic, everyone knew she meant the rhyme, not the principle. 

The only proof of existence of the Court to the general public was the nursery rhyme that most thought to be a fairytale lost to the ages, something born of old Gotham and faded into legend. 

In some ways, it was right; the Court was the face of Gotham’s shadows, an organization founded at the same time as the City, sunk into legend and cemented into Gotham’s past not as its rulers, but as it’s nursery rhyme. 

Tim didn’t say a thing to any of the Jury members he passed on his way out. 

He did, however, take a different turn than he normally would; the Palace had the answers he was looking for, and he’d been told they had the extensive library. Beyond that, he was told it was the place he was most likely to find another Jury member, an Owl by the name of  _ Owl Loriere. _

The library was past what Tim generally referred to as  _ the execution room,  _ where the glass was, and where the Owls were sentenced when they were found guilty; it was one hall down, past more statues of Gods long gone, stolen from their rightful homes. 

In fact, it was rather pretty if you ignored the creepy and cultish vibes of it all. A secret society supposedly fighting for the best of the city. 

Well, there truly was no way to take the creepy cult out of the premise. Ugh. 

The library was… as he was told, it was  _ extensive.  _ Twenty-foot high shelves of books greeted him, four to his left and asn indistinguishable amount one of his right, all placed around a series of tables. There was a staircase, but with the high ceilings and Tim’s goal of finding the Jury Owl, he didn’t bother to see what it led to. 

“Owl Loreire?” Tim called, careful to his voice level and reasonable. Despite the fact that he was in the Court library, they had eyes everywhere, and it would be best if he acted in ways that were strictly defined as normal. 

He’d seen people found as guilty and called to the glass for less. 

With an answering hum, he found the Owl in question sitting on a velvet sofa, underneath yet another one of the Palace’s notable chandeliers. He was holding a book, a worn copy without a name on the spine, and gestured for Tim to take a seat opposite to him. 

“Owl Jacklyn, what brings you to me?” He asks, burning green eyes staring through Tim’s, through the owl masks, through everything Tim had ever done in his life. 

The masks may be to obscure their identities, but that was by principle only. One way or another, dots were connected, and it was no secret to the rest of the Court that he was the son of the two that had disappeared from the Court’s eyes four years ago. 

Funny how quickly time flied. 

Sitting on the other edge of the sofa, Tim cleared his throat, not bothering to put on a polite smile, reason being the mask and his general displeasure of the Jury. “I was wondering how the Jury decides such things about the guilty. So many different things to do with them.” 

“Oh, you know how it works. The Court makes their verdicts, we interpret. That is all there is to your question.” 

They both knew that Tim had asked something he knew the answer to, but he needed a lead in to the rest of his questions. “It’s a shame, really, that people - Owls, even - would bring disgrace on their House, isn’t it?” 

Loriere hummed. “Yes, it is. Such good talent put to waste, for a few crumbs of what they might consider power.” 

His answer was definitive, and yet Tim pushed on, swallowing the bile once again rising to his throat. He needed to get that under control before it became a problem; he’d been in the Court for two years, he should be used to all this. “What happens when a member of the disgraced House returns to the Court? Has this ever happened before?” 

Of course it had happened. Tim was living proof of that, but the Court’s opinions of him were elusive, slipping through his fingers every time he tried to ask. Not this time. No, this time, he had Loriere cornered, and someone had to fucking answer him. 

The Court shows no weakness, though, and their conversation continued with calm voices as Loriere answered. “They are judged, though not on the glass. They’re considered for their failings and accomplishments, and the Court decides whether the disgrace continues to them as well. If it does not, then they stay, and that House is reinstated.” 

The only reason the House would be reinstated after a relative of the disgraced joined the Court is if their disgraced family members were murdered, or else the House would still have a guilty verdict looming over them. 

That didn’t bode well for Tim, who hadn’t seen his parents in four years, ever since they got mixed up with something in the Court.

They couldn’t,  _ couldn’t  _ have simply been found guilty! It had to be more than that, it  _ had  _ to. 

Just because Tim had come to terms with the idea that he was searching for corpses rather than a rescue didn’t mean that he was able to come to terms with the idea that they had simply been like the other seven Owls he’d seen sentenced, countless in the number of times the same sentences had happened, the same summonings. 

“And… if the new member of the House disgraces them as well?” Tim asked, out of curiosity. He knew that if he were to be found guilty, he would no doubt be executed by a Talon, but he didn’t know what would become of his family name in the Court, anything like that.

“The House itself would be disgraced and eliminated, serving as a warning, a message.” 

Well, unluckily for the Court, it wasn’t like he had any more relatives, other than maybe Mrs. Mac, which he had come to refer to as his aunt when someone asked if he was home alone. 

_ No,  _ he would say,  _ my aunt is staying with me.  _

She didn’t stay with him and she wasn’t his aunt, but the white lie worked out, specifically when she was the one that would attend his parent-teacher conferences with a polite and confused expression. 

There was no one left for the Court to murder if he was disgraced. He wouldn’t put anyone in danger other than himself if he were to, say, out himself as a double-agent; one part Owl, one part detective. 

God, it sounded cheesy, even in his head, but he was playing detective. Toying with the little tendrils of information the Court gave him and turning it into a piece to the puzzle, and he was around halfway done. 

He knew the identities of the Court, the  _ real  _ identities, and he didn’t fucking care what their real intention was. He cared about the fact that they were the reason his parents disappeared, and they made the mistake of letting him join their ranks. 

“Are you here, Owl Jacklyn?” 

Tim snapped out of his thoughts, blinking at the man before remembering that he was still in the library, still in the line of fire. Never safe, not really, not really with the Court’s Talons on the prowl. 

“Just fine. Thinking about what’s happened in the Court, as of late. So much disloyalty. How does the Court deal with poison making its way through itself?” Tim mused, playing with the idea in his mind, his hands in his pockets. 

First rule of dealing in secret affairs: don’t keep sticky notes around. 

First rule of dealing in secret affairs that Tim broke each and every night: don’t keep sticky notes around. They were a good thing to keep handy, and there’s one on the top of the stack…

“The poison you speak of is infecting Gotham, not the Owls. Owls have survived far longer than Gotham, and they will far outlive it.” 

That was in direct contradiction to the Court. Tim had heard the stories, knew the loopholes - and, supposedly, the number one goal of the Court was to run Gotham in shadow, to keep it thriving… And saying that the City was poisoning itself from the inside out. 

Nevertheless, Tim didn’t comment on it, instead giving a soft sigh, far too old for his age. He was the youngest Owl in history, and he wore it with a heavy pride.  _ Sixteen-years-old,  _ having joined when he was fourteen. 

“It was nice to speak with you, Loriere. You’ve answered my inquiries well.” The formal talk grated on his nerves, always did, but he couldn’t drop it in the Palace, and it was hard to shake when he was playing as acting CEO of his company, that he didn’t even have real control over. 

God, his life was a mess even when he was  _ fourteen,  _ and he still thought it was a good idea to get himself involved in a cult? 

Tim stood up without any fanfare commentary, nodding at the Jury Owl and walking quicker than usual out of the library, out of the Palace. 

He didn’t take his usual route home, instead discarding his owl mask at the doors of the Palace and gunning it out of there. He didn’t resort to running until he was already back in the streets, in the uncomfortable suit that cost more than he dared to know, in dress shoes that weren’t meant for running. 

By the time he had run two miles, halfway across the city, he knew the Court had figured him out. By then, they must have already sent Talons after him. 

There was no way he could match a Talon, but he had the benefit of surprise on his side; he just had to find a place to hide. 

Tim had what he needed, and his pockets sat empty, no sticky notes to be seen. 

Tim should’ve changed before he was running for his life. Really, it would’ve made a world of difference, but he didn’t have the common sense to keep some spare comfortable thoughts. 

And thus, he was running through the streets of Gotham, and getting  _ toe cramps  _ while trying to find a good place to  _ not  _ get assassinated. It was a double-whammy in every sense of the word. 

He had roughly ten minutes before attempts were being made on his life, and he would rather not have his brains scattered all throughout Gotham as a message to the rest of the Court, thank you very much. 

Where the fuck was he going to go? 

He couldn’t go back to Drake Manor; it was no doubt the first place they would expect, and he couldn’t go into the heart of Gotham, if only because he would be recognized, and the more people who recognized him the more likely he would be to get murdered. 

The slums? They seemed like his last option, and he was closer to them than he was willing to admit. There was still running to be done, and he was a photographer and cult member, not a runner. God fucking dammit. 

Sometimes, he got in far too over his head, and this happened to be one of those times. 

Think, Tim, think! The slums, where would he go in the slums? 

Somewhere public, somewhere where he wouldn’t be recognized, but there would be enough people around that his assassination would be too public, too out-of-range for Talons to operate without the Court ruining them for their sloppiness. 

Where would be…  _ Perfect.  _

Tim grinned, skidding headfirst into a coffee shop on the corner, when it was clear by the scenery change that he was no longer in the Diamond District; he was no longer near the center of the City. 

The coffee shop was, of course, filled to the brim with bored patrons who looked like they had nothing better to do than stand around, and the perpetual line of people rushing to get their daily coffee intake during lunch so they could go back and deal with whatever, secure in the knowledge that their coffee addiction was satiated. 

He took a seat in the back, though it was close to the windows, and pretended he wasn’t panting, trying to catch his breath, find a rhyme of reason to everything he was doing. 

He’d exposed himself to the Court, meaning that until he either found a way to to gain an edge over them, or find a way to make sure his usefulness outweighed his betrayal, he was screwed. He needed,  _ needed  _ to find something, someone, or - or whatever, and quick.

Tim isn’t used to thinking on the fly. He isn’t used to quick-thinking when it came to being assassinated, at least; he’d always had time to think about what he was going to say and how he was doing to say it. 

Not this time. No, no, he needed… Something. Something. Goddammit, brain, work! Work work  _ work! _

Wayne Manor. 

Perhaps it’s a weird thing to think, especially with his life on the line, but if he managed to get to Wayne Manor he would be able to find something or someone to help; or maybe he was trying to talk himself out of running for his life in the first place. 

He didn’t join the Court of Owls just to betray them with half-baked evidence that he didn’t even care about.

No, no, he joined the Court of Owls to figure out what the hell they did with his parents, and he wasn’t letting that go now. 

Instead, he would deal with the Talons following him, and he would deal with the price on his head,  _ while  _ looking for the truth, because that was what detectives did, and he was a goddamn detective before he was a coward. 

Tim made a point to mingle, smiling at the barista and even (trying) to flirt with the waitress, leaving the coffee shop with mock flushed cheeks and a fake smile. He needed to make it look like he was there for a good time, since he didn’t buy a coffee, and a taxi noticed him nearly immediately when he tried to flag it down. 

Luck, Tim supposed. It worked in his favor, occasionally. 

Regardless, a Talon could follow him easily, but if he was out of their sight when he was in Wayne Manor, then he would be safe. For a moment, at the very least. 

After all, it wasn’t like the Court of Owls knew the identities of Batman and Robin. And, say, where the entrance to the Bat-Cave was. 

  
  



	2. i just wanna run, throw it away, they're chasing me down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look, dress shoes weren't meant for running. And yet, Tim Drake was running from an assassin in dress shoes, and not too happy about it. The only logical course of action? Break into the Bat-Cave.

When Tim hailed the taxi, he immediately began going over anything and everything he could do to either convince Batman that he needed help, or sneak into the Bat-Cave. 

It was a dumb and illogical idea, he knew, but the Bat-Cave would have the information he needed on Court of Owls, and if Tim had more information he could piece together a way to help himself, which seemed like the more desirable option. 

Unfortunately for him, nothing was ever that easy. 

“Uh,: Tim started, raising his palm as though he was still in school, “You missed the turn, about a street ago. You were supposed to turn on Lightwater.” 

The taxi driver didn’t answer, and ants began crawling under Tim’s skin, oh God, oh fuck, _I need to leave._

The Court was quicker than he expected. 

Fuck. _Fuck._

“On second thought,” Tim started quickly, swallowing back his fear and throwing his seatbelt off, “I think I’ll be going now, sorry!”

Before the disguised Talon had the chance to lock the doors, Tim was already tumbling out of the taxi and into the busy, traffic-ridden streets, breathing way too harshly and trying his damnedest to, you know, not die. 

That was going to be a little difficult with a fucking Talon on his tail, but he would get through this. He had to. He had to find the truth and he couldn’t do that if he was six feet under with a slash mark across his neck. 

Tim cursed, ducking into a rain-slick alley, gravel crunching underneath his feet. He was _not_ in the right shoes for fence-jumping. 

Instead of turning around, because that split second could be worth his life, Tim ran toward the seven-feet tall chain link fence, lifting his foot off the ground to bounce off the fence and use the added height to grip the top of the fence before gaining more secure footing back on the ground. 

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. 

When he stood crouched at the top, he turned back to see if anyone was following him, only to be met with the beady owl eyes of the same Talon from the taxi. 

Wasting time was for losers, Tim decided, jumping to the ground and taking care to not fuck his ankles up; tuck and roll, tuck and roll, even if his suit was most definitely ruined from the impact and the grime. 

Keep going. Anything he could do, the Talon could do faster. 

The only exception to that rule was think, and Talon’s weren’t exactly known for their quick-thinking skills. That was the thing about them, as Tim trudged through Gotham’s back alleys; they didn’t think for themselves, they took orders in the way only a brain-washed soldier could.

He couldn’t plead mercy to a soldier. 

That wasn’t boding well for him! Alright, alright, what could he do? He couldn’t keep this up, couldn’t keep running. 

Out of his peripheral vision, Tim caught the end of a fire escape ladder, just in reach for him to latch onto and pull himself up on - fuck, he needed to do more pull-ups with the time it took, but he didn’t have the time to think about it before he was on his feet again, running up seven fucking flights of stairs, because that was how he wanted to spend his Tuesday afternoon.

By the time Tim reached the roof, the Talon behind him was already three-quarters of the way up the fire escape. 

_Fuck._

There weren’t a whole lot of options there, and Tim knew for a fact that he wasn’t going to be able to fight or hold his own against the Talon for the battle to come to the attention of any of the vigilantes in the area. 

All he could do was run. 

And run he did. He had nothing else to do. Across the roof-top, across the gap between buildings, run run _run._

Dress shoes didn’t help. The Talon was still on his tail; why hadn’t it caught up to him already? it should’ve caught up to him already. Tim wasn’t that quick of a runner, last he checked, and Talons weren’t built to make things like this last. 

Because what Tim did? That was the sort of sentence that required execution on sight, definitely not meant to be drawn out in a cat and mouse game. 

The next roof-top Tim needed to jump to was taller than he could jump. 

Fuck fuck fuck _fuck._ He’d somehow managed to bridge a ten-foot gap last time, but he wasn’t going to be able to miraculously do that again, and he couldn’t stop running. 

The fire escape. 

If he kept jumping across roof-tops like this he might just be able to fill out the Gotham vigilante form, but the fire escape usage would _really_ cement it in. The fire escape on the side of the rickety building didn’t look well-used, too rusty to be secure. 

And it was Tim’s only option, the closest he had to what might be _living._

Tim cursed again, loudly making sure the Talon heard exactly what he thought of the Court of Owls before leaping, fucking _leaping_ like a character in a video game. 

_Make the jump. He had to make the jump._

For a moment, Tim was weightless, another bird in the air soaring across the skies. 

And the next moment, he was _falling._

He was just short of the fire escape. Just short of surviving. At least a slit throat would be quick, relatively painless. 

Every bone in his body would break upon impact before he died. 

Tim’s hand caught on the edge of the fire escape, and his body jolted, surprised at the non-murderous turn of events. It was like he was still falling, falling, even as he pulled himself up onto the fire escape in a scrambling sort-of panic, the kind that made his hands shake more than he’d like and make his entire body jitter. 

Run. He needed to start running again. 

But where? Up, and the Talon would gain more ground on him, but back to the ground, where he was far more likely to get ambushed by other Talons? 

There was no good option. 

And Tim… stood there. He didn’t have anything to fight the Talon with and he didn’t have a bat’s chance in hell, but if he managed to think quick enough to confuse the Talon, then he might have the chance to run again.

He was still in the slums, just on the edge of them, and… And Wayne Manor was further than he could hope to get. 

Fuck, that didn’t leave him with too many options - not that he’d had them in the first place. 

The closest place he could think of was Red Hood’s safe house. 

Tim had, in his time as a photographer (and vague full-time stalker of the Batman), learned far more about the so-called bat-family than he was willing to admit. And he knew for a fact that Red Hood patrolled routes around the slums, and if Tim had the date right, then he would be at his safehouse on the corner of Winston and 34th, top floor, third room on the right. 

Fuck. If he survived to make it there, then maybe he could save his plea case for _after_ the Talon was dead, and - fuck!

tim ducked, his heart beating out of his chest with the Talon’s claws so close to his face, he was fucking frozen, move, move _move_ **_move._ **

Tim ducked, swinging around and sweeping his leg out, using the railing of the fire escape for balance; the Talon easily jumped, holding the top of the level above them to kick its legs out to push Tim toward the edge, nearly tipping over - 

Tim gulped, the Talon’s claw oh-so close to slicing his neck open. 

The Talon was sloppy, hesitating more than it needed to for the sack of satiating its own sadism. 

With a dramatic flourish, Tim kicked in the back of the Talon’s knee, sliding out of its descend against the railing before it could crush him. With their lack of pain, it didn’t care as it righted it’s bearings, but Tim was already running down the fire escape stairs once again. 

It was never going to be quick enough to work. 

Once he was about three stories from the ground, Tim decided _fuck it,_ thinking about the way he’d somehow managed to come face to face with a Talon’s blade and _survive_ it look enough to think about it now, and - okay. 

Just get it together. Fuck it. 

_Jump._

Being a bird must fucking suck, because Tim wasn’t going to be doing anymore fire escape falls than he needed to. His hand fucking hated him the skin flaking from both the impact and his blatant lack of usual exercise as he found himself dangling off the fire scape railing, one story above the ground. 

Before he could think about all his stupid decisions, he let go, leaping closer to the wall so as to give him a more controlled fall. 

His landing wasn’t graceful, and his ankle ached, but not enough so that it slowed him down. 

His entire _body_ was hurting, but the Talon didn’t care if he was in a bit of pain or not. Keep going, Tim, keep going. 

Four more blocks until the safehouse. Four more blocks until you can dump the Talon on someone who could fight it off. 

Just keep running. 

It was easier said than done, and Tim was gritting his teeth the longer he ran, his calves burning, in tune with the frantic beat of his heart. For a chase sequence, it was getting fucking long, but this wasn’t cable TV where he could change the channel at will. 

Two more blocks. Keep going. 

If he tripped now, he was going to be the joke of the afterlife, dear god. Keep going. 

The backalleys weren’t meant for running for your life, despite it being the bad side of Gotham that even most police wouldn’t touch with a fifty-foot pole. 

Just keep going. One more block. 

The Talon was just on his heels, getting closer and closer with each step and Tim had torn the collar of his suit at one point, his hair fucked-up and getting into his eyes as he got curious stares from the homeless around the area. 

Half-a-block. 

Quarter of a block. 

_There._

Tim sighed of relief, and then realized he still didn’t have the fucking time for that as he burst into the apartment complex, slamming the doors open and no doubt causing a ruckus, elevator, there was an elevator, but where were the stairs? 

The elevator would be more comfortable, but he didn’t want to take the risk of the Talon darting up the stairs while he took a breather. And it might be five stories, but Talon’s were quicker than people like him. 

Which raised the question: why the fuck was Tim able to outrun and out-smart the Talon? It made no sense. 

He didn’t have that kind of training, considering he was just an Owl; Talons trained all their lives before they were deployed into the Court. So _what is it?_

Before he found the answer to his question, he slammed face-first into the wall, the staircase having taken a turn when he wasn’t paying attention just to fuck with him. 

Tim groaned, holding his head, before taking off again, not enough time not enough _time;_ he couoldn’t see the Talon behind him, and couldn’t hear it either, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t on the prowl, and fucking hell he needed to find the Red Hood before the Talon found him. 

Last flight of stairs. 

Fuck, Tim was never climbing up stairs again if this was what it did every single damn time. 

Three doors to the left - no, no, to the right of the staircase, okay, okay - 

The door was locked, as Tim had expected, so he pounded on the door, frantic, frantic because he _had_ to be because there was an assassin on his heels. 

He damn near fell in when the door opened, a disgruntled looking man, even with the matte red helmet covering his features, holding a gun. 

“Um, hi, so I know there’s -” Tim started, scrambling off the floor with the same grace as a man running for his life, which he was, but he was brutally interrupted by the shrieking sound of Talon’s claws piercing through the doorway, lodged into the wood long enough for the Red Hood to register who was the bad guy here and who wasn’t. 

Well, logically, none of them were good guys, technically, since you had an assassin, a vigilante, and a double-agent, but that wasn’t the point. 

While Hood assessed the situation and fought the Talon, which Tim wasn’t paying attention to for the sake of his own sanity, Tim scrambled behind the kitchen island, no lights other than a lamp in the living room on. 

If this was a safehouse to one of Gotham’s most notoriously paranoid vigilantes, then there have to be weapons somewhere. 

Tim didn’t want to be useless, and he wasn’t going to be. There had to be weapons somewhere; somewhere accessible, that you couldn’t see at first, somewhere they could be grabbed at a moment’s notice if the situation required it. And Tim had a feeling that the Red Hood didn’t leave his apartment with the front door all too often. 

Tim crawled out from behind the kitchen island, trying to regulate his breathing so as to not draw attention to himself; when he glanced over at Hood and the Talon, there was blood splayed over Hood’s jacket and the Talon’s leg, though Tim didn’t know whose blood it was. 

He darted behind the arm chair, thinking, thinking as much as his fucking brain would allow him too with the assassin sent for his head so close to him; _where were Hood’s weapons?_

He better have more than just guns, because the sound of a gunshot would surely alert more people to the predicament in hand and Tim didn’t need more people involved. 

Okay, okay, so, accessible, but easy to hide, accessible… 

Oh, what was he doing? Tim rolled his eyes, reaching toward what seemed to be a fireplace remote thing, but there was no glass fireplace in sight, and pressed the largest button on the remote. 

Lo and behold, the room’s walls shifted, slower than Tim would’ve liked, but he was okay with anything at this point. 

There were more than just guns, as he’s expected, and more than just knives, too. Tim reached for both a short jagged dagger as well as… And he didn’t know why, but a bo-staff; extendable from the looks of it. 

He didn’t know why, but it felt right; it felt familiar in a sense that his off-track thoughts did. So much going on, but he knew what he was doing, in some fucked-up way that he didn’t think he knew about. 

Well, that was going on the to-do list. 

Hood was faring well with Talon, last Tim checked, but he wasn’t going to leave that to luck; he pressed the button once again to keep Talon from accessing more weapons than it already had, turning back to the _fight_ with more confidence than he expected. 

Hood had Talon pinned to the ground, with one knee keeping Talon’s elbow pinned to the ground, one arm keeping the other pinned, and a gun to its head. “Fuck do you work for?” 

Tim swallowed back his nerves. Holy fuck, holy fuck, he couldn’t believe that he managed to meet the _Red Hood_ and not freak out about it! Sure, they’d talked at galas before, but that wasn’t the same!

“It won’t answer you,” Tim said simply, walking over with all the grace of a disoriented falcon on a highwire. “It’s not designed for that.” 

“It?” 

“It. It’s a Talon, or so they say. And, uh, he was sent to murder me.” 

“Do I need to ask why?” Hood’s got thick sarcasm oozing out of his voice, even though he hadn’t said anything sarcastic, and he was leisurely waving around the gun he had to Talon’s head as the assassin flailed, trying to find a way to escape. 

“It would take a while to explain. I’m not - I’m not a bad person, I can explain everything, and - and it’s a long story, and -” 

“So do I kill _it_ or not?” 

Tim blinked, in both surprise and confusion. “Uh. I don’t - I can’t -” 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” 

For all the death he’d seen in his two years in the Court, Tim still closed his eyes, and pretended he didn’t flinch when he heard the gunshot. 

When he opened his eyes again, Hood was standing tall and expectantly, with crossed arms and both semi-automatics back in their places in his high holsters. “So, you gonna tell me who you are, kid?” 

“You don’t recognize me?” was the first thing Tim said, if only because, hey, they were _neighbors_ for at least eight, nine years now, he should probably recognize him. 

Wait, fuck, maybe he was just saying that because of his secret identity!

Tim cleared his throat, scratching at the nape of his neck with an awkward laugh. “I mean, uh, my name is Tim Drake, and that is a Talon, who was sent to murder me because I happened to betray Gotham’s secret rich people cult, if that makes sense?” 

Well, out of context, that didn’t seem like it made sense, but Tim hoped Hood would go with it. To Tim’s luck, he did. “Uh… Cool. How the fuck did you know where my safehouse was? This didn’t seem like a chance meeting.” 

“Would you believe me if I told you I was just really, really lucky?” 

“Not a chance.” 

Tim sighed. “Well, I’ve kinda been stalking Batman & co since I was, like, seven, and it’s easy to figure things out from there, if you know how they operate and all that.” 

Hood’s posture changed, suddenly a fuckton more hostile. _Fuck._ Did he say something wrong? “I’m not a fucking part of _Batman & co. _Why did you come here?” 

“Because I was being chased by an assassin and the Bat-Cave seemed like a bit of a reach,” Tim rolled his eyes, crossing his own eyes, the bo-staff still in hand. He hoped Hood wouldn’t mind if he kept it, because there certainly weren’t any faux walls back home, as though he _could_ go back home with the Court looking for him now. 

Hood matched his attitude. “And you’re saying you know where that is? You have _got_ to be kidding me. Some kid isn’t gonna know where the Bat-Cave is.” 

“Yeah, well, the stalking came in handy for that. Sorry for that, by the way, but I didn’t realize it was kinda fuckin’ creepy. Anyways, whole identity thing, yada yada, could you maybe help me?” 

He’s always known he wasn’t the best at asking for help, not when he infiltrated the Court and not when his parents disappeared; but now’s the time that he really, truly does need it, and there’s no other options for him. 

He can’t fight Talons on his own, not efficiently, and he didn’t even know how he held the first one off so long without getting assassinated in the process. Basically, Tim had shit to figure out, and he didn’t have the time to figure any of it out. 

Hood was giving him a curious look, even through the helmet. Jeez, that thing was intimidating, did he _have_ to keep wearing it? “You want _my_ help, after bringing an assassin to _my_ apartment, after having _stalked_ me?” 

Tim blinked. There were nicer ways to put it. “Yes. I kinda need your help. And I think I need to break into the Bat-Cave.” 

His brain was running fourteen miles per hour, and there was no fucking way that Tim was going to be able to keep up if he kept thinking like this, but if he needed Hood’s help to keep the Court off him, he still needed to find the truth, and it was like there was another half to the puzzle, one that he didn’t have yet. 

And Tim had a sneaking suspicion that whatever info he wanted would no doubt be on the Bat-Computer, or whatever cheesy name it had, because he had more than a suspicion he knew the other party involved in his parent’s disappearance. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t know the pieces; it was that none of them made _sense._

Hood sighed, shaking his head. “You know more than you’re letting on, don’t you? And why the fuck would you need to break into the Bat-Cave with assassins following you?” 

“I don’t care about them, I care about… Er, well, it’s complicated. I need to figure out the truth, it’s this whole thing and I can’t just let it go now and I obviously can’t fight, so I need your help for that, and… And yeah, if that makes sense.” 

He wasn’t giving Hood half the story, half the picture, he knew that, but not everything could be explained like a social media caption in under two minutes, and Hood had to realize that, had to see that Tim was deadly serious. 

Tim’s eyes must’ve been the right kind of pleading, or maybe Hood was just curious as to how it would go, but he gave a gruff, “Sure, kid.” 

Tim was nearly out the door before he stopped, almost tripping over himself. “Do you, uh, have any spare domino masks? I don’t particularly want to be recognized all over Gotham?” 

Hood snorted. “In that suit? They’d immediately want to roll you for your wallet, not give two shits about who you are.” 

“I mean the _assassins,_ Hood.” 

“Still, the suit is going to kill you in that regard. Metaphorically.” Yeah, it seemed neither of them thought that Hood meant _metaphorically._

It was difficult to place the Red Hood he was seeing currently with the boy who used to be his childhood hero, or the Crime Alley kid he’d hung out with at the foundation galas neither of them wanted to go to. 

“Well, do _you_ have any suggestions, Mr. Matte Red Helmet?” Tim asked, a raised brow and crossed arms to go with the question. 

Hood _humphed._ “Whatever, kid. They probably have somethin’ ‘round your size back at the Cave; reject suits or stuff the Robins outgrew.” 

Tim didn’t ask how Hood knew that, because he already knew the answer. Because he was Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne’s (legally dead) adopted son, and Batman’s second Robin.

While Tim wasn’t sure on the details, he knew that Jason was back, and that he was under that helmet. Hey, he had some detective work to do on the side when he wasn’t busy obsessing over the Court of Owls and his parent’s. 

He had other hobbies, you know. 

Tim nodded. “Sure, we can see, but can I have that domino for now?”

“Go for it. Same place you found the bo-staff that you _definitely_ took. You realize I have to move all this shit now that you - and whoever the fuck the Court is - knows its here, right?” 

Tim grinned sheepishly, turning back and re-opening the weapons armory hidden in the walls, like a _badass_ safehouse. The domino mask was too big for him, nearly slipping down his nose, but it was enough for now, he supposed. 

God, he hoped that there was some suit he could wear, because his dress shoes weren’t meant for shit like this, and he was wearing them down far quicker than he expected. 

Near-assassinations did that. 

_ 

Tim was _certain_ Hood had to know that Tim knew his secret identity by now. Just based on logical fact, Hood _had_ to know, and Tim had been wondering it the entire motorcycle (motorcycle!) ride to their entry-point. 

“So, uh… How are we planning on breaking into the Bat-Cave?” Tim asked, over the roar of the wind, through the helmet that squished his cheeks. 

Hood’s response was just as muffled. “Well, we’re gonna assume no one is home and go from there.” 

“And you’re just assuming that?” 

“Let’s just say I have inside intel.” Who the fuck had he had the time to talk to since they started on their ride? What the fuck? 

“And the cameras?” 

“Again, I have help on that.” With Hood’s tone, it was clear that he had no honest fucking clue how they were pulling this off, but from the sounds of it, Tim was going to guess that he’d had the help of who he suspected to be the Bats’ hacker, someone named Oracle. 

Tim didn’t bring up any other concerns, and Hood didn’t bring up any other solutions. 

The rest of the ride was spent in silence, and Tim pretended he didn’t spare a glance at the long, winding driveway to Drake Manor as they passed. 

It didn’t make sense to put any effort into it now. The place had never been home, but it had housed him and only him for nearly four years, and it hadn’t collapsed on him yet. It felt wrong to leave the lifeless place behind, but it wasn’t like he had a choice in the matter. 

Huh. Hood was taking him straight to Wayne Manor. 

He knew, then. 

“I’m assuming I don’t have to knock you out for this next part?” Hood asked, in a deadpan, as the bike skidded to a dramatic stop in front of the wrought iron gates separating the property of Wayne Manor from the rest of the world. 

Tim nodded mutely, not yet taking his helmet off. 

Hood didn’t open the gates, though. Instead, he waited, impatiently tapping his foot, while Tim stood by the sleek motorbike in a shy sort of tense.

Again, it was dawning on him that this was his _childhood hero_ breaking into _the Bat-Cave_ with him. Holy fuckin’ hell, this was the second Robin! This was Jason Todd! 

And, hey, there was no Batman around to tell him what to do! Tim had always thought Batman was cool, but perhaps he liked Robin more because Robin always seemed way more like him. Batman and most of the Justice League had been called away, though, one some apocalyptic mission into space.

God, it was difficult to believe this was the world they lived in; the world’s league of _superheroes_ were in space because they needed to save the universe, that kind of jazz. 

And Tim trusted them to do that, so he still needed to solve whatever had happened to his parents, and the Court of Owls.

“You need to get that zonin’ out thing under control if you plan on being in constant danger, kid.” 

“Could you stop calling me kid?” Tim huffed, scowling. 

The bo-staff around his waist was being kept there solely by belt loops (he was concerned why there were belt loops on his suit, but it wasn’t like they were visible, because of his jacket), and it was digging uncomfortably into his hips; certainly not helping his mood. Or concentration. 

Fuck, there better be a suit that fit him.

Hood shrugged. Or should Tim call him Jason now? Since he obviously knew Hood’s identity, or… How was that going to work? “Whatever, _kid.”_

Before Tim could come up with something clever to say, a section of loose brush and, well, _woods,_ pushed apart, a tell-tale machine hum in the background, revealing a darkened staircase in the ground, with silver metal stairs leading downward. 

“If my bike gets stolen, I’m so, _so_ blaming you,” Hood said, though Tim didn’t know what his expression looked like under the hood. 

Tim sighed, and descended upon the staircase after following Hood’s leave. 

Welcome to the Bat-Cave. 


	3. it's in your head, all the voices mistaken, we're all dying in the end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim needs to get access to the Bat-Computer, and Jason's along for the ride. The plane ride, that is, and he hates flying more than he hates Talia Al Ghul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look at me updating before two months... wild !! anyway here u go i hope u enjoy it !!

In the last hour, Jason had fought an assassin, answered the door to a sixteen-year-old with a more expensive suit than his apartment, and broken into the Bat-Cave.

Well, he hadn't  _ broken in, _ per se, considering Oracle had done the work and let him in, but the point still stood. And he hadn't done it in that order, but that also wasn't the point.

And he didn't know what was going on, but in the dark, winding tunnel that led to the Bat-Cave (because, really, no dramatic brooding center for a grown-ass man dressed in a bat suit was complete until there was a winding tunnel with spark rocks and weird humidity), he had plenty of time to think about it.

He could, of course, ask Tim, but that seemed too simple, and Tim had proven to be a rather secretive individual already.

AKA, Jason didn't feel like it, and he had enough to worry about on his own.

There was, of course, the lingering wonder about how he knew their identities, and especially Jason's apartment; which still had a body in it, but he didn't think he was going to have the chance to go back and get his things.

If Tim knew their identities, then other people could, too. While he didn't know the exact reason, there needed to be a stark change in routine to make sure it didn't happen again; routine was dangerous in and of itself, and now it seemed it was coming to bite him in the ass. Or some kid's stalking habits were biting him in the ass, he didn't know at this point.

Being a vigilante with an estranged family sucked.

The  _ estranged family _ part wasn't as pressing at the moment, but he was breaking into his ex-father's lair, so Jason figured it was worth a mention.

"You brooding there, Red?" Oracle asked, voice crackling through his earpiece, heard to no one other than him. "And are you going to tell me  _ why _ you're doing this? Not trying to murder anyone again?"

"Not trying to murder anyone, I think," Jason shrugged, barely remembering that she couldn't see that. If she really wanted to, she could hack into the Cave's security cameras, make sure he was sticking to his word.

He was well aware no one in his family trusted him, but trust didn't mean anything to him. If he needed to know, he would know. (And that was most certainly in part because of Oracle, he wasn't going to lie to himself like that.)

"Uh... I'm... not trying to murder anyone if that's what you mean?" Tim, rather than Oracle, answered, still ambling forward like a confused fawn. Not the most graceful, Jason had to admit. Then again, not everyone was raised by the streets and an eccentric, martial arts master billionaire.

Jason shook his head. "Not talking to you, Timmers, carry on your merry way."

"Don't call me that."

Oracle snorted. "He sounds pleasant to be around. Have you tried not irritating him yet?"

"Aw, you were listening? So you do care!"

Jason knew many things, and they most certainly included bantering. If Oracle needed to know, she would know, but for the moment, Jason needed to let Tim figure it out by himself, see if he trusted Jason, and make him feel like Jason wasn't trading his secrets.

And he wasn't, because that was a douchey thing to do, and he was playing hero today, as it was.

He could  _ hear _ Barbara roll her eyes, but she didn't respond, and Tim turned his attention back to Jason.

"Who are you talking to then? The Court could be listening, and I can't - I need to figure out what the fuck is going on, and for that, I can't get  _ assassinated, _ if you get the gist."

God, so serious already. He'd fit right in. But Jason wasn't going to be having that conversation yet, because he  _ wasn't _ going to deal with a chance run-in with any of his estranged family.

"A friend. Same one who let us in."

Tim shrunk in on himself, no doubt not expecting that, and Jason would've expected an apology for the abrasiveness if the kid hadn't been raised by rich dumbasses who didn't know common decency if it shot them in the head.

What an ironic turn of phrase, no?

"Can she help with...?"

Because, conveniently timed, Jason saw the light of the idle Batcomputer screen illuminate the few steps that were left in the tunnel; their footsteps were beginning to echo, alone in the giant, trophy-adorned cavern.

Jason nodded. "If she feels like I'm being all heroic tonight. And I am, by the way."

Tim didn't even seem intimidated. "I can tell. Maybe the Talon didn't, but we'll see, yeah?"

"You'll fit right in with this crowd, kid."

Under his breath, Tim mumbled something like, " _ God, I can't tell whether that's a good or a bad thing," _ and in truth, Jason didn't know either. Gotham might just explode if it had to deal with yet another masked hero or vigilante beating villains up in the dead of night, or stopping the apocalypse.

Then again, maybe it would help. Heat would be taken off Jason and onto the new hero, and - dear Lord, he needed to stop thinking in hypotheticals before he thought himself into another early grave.

Tim didn't stop to marvel at the Bat-Cave; instead, he headed right over to the Bat-Computer, glancing at the various trinkets and trophies adorning the cavern before turning his attention back to the docile screen at hand.

That needed a password.

"So, you gonna tell me why you needed to break into the Bat-Cave, or do I have to guess until I hit the million-dollar answer?" Jason asked, crossing his arms and raising a brow, before remembering that no, no - wait. He wasn't  _ wearing _ his helmet; he was wearing a domino mask. He’d taken the helmet off somewhere on the way to the Cave, during the walk. It was… probably with his bike, but he didn’t know. That was not a good thing to not remember. Huh. 

God, he confused himself even in his own confusion. He chalked it up to not having enough coffee to make up for the extra patrol shift he'd taken last night, despite everyone else's recommendations.

Tim sighed, shoulders heavy with the weight of the world (and his head, because apparently that was worth something to a rich people cult now). "I need to look into the appearance and activity of some - some organizations in Gotham, see if it matches up with the timeline I've constructed in my time with the Court."

Damn. Tim should be at home, doing his homework or something, but... Well, it echoed the way his life had been at that age (or a little younger, considering he'd been in a coffin when he was sixteen), patrolling the streets of Gotham in a traffic light costume when he should've been studying for his math test.

It's not like he could fault Tim for that. Life decided people like them needed to take a different path, and a different path was laid out for them with all the flair of heartbreak and broken souls.

"What organizations? And, again,  _ why? _ The Cave's been operatin' quietly for years, it's fine to take a break and re-group here. And, more importantly, tell me what the fuck is going on, in a bit finer detail."

With tense shoulders, Tim turned on his heel, back to Jason, more than just the day's events clouding his gaze. There were secrets he was keeping, and he wasn't keeping them well.

He'd need a crash course if he was going to make a habit of it. How hadn't he gotten killed under deep cover with secret-keeping like  _ that? _ Nevertheless, Tim's voice shook Jason out of his thoughts, tired and weighted with more than a sixteen-year-old needed. "So, the Court of Owls. A secret organization made up of Gotham's elite, hellbent on keeping Gotham on the right path; like a poison, they'll do anything to keep Gotham from  _ falling, _ or so they say."

"You would be good at detective shows," Jason said dryly, since he'd never learned how to process information any other way and, well, there wasn't anything to say to that. A secret rich people cult trying to make sure that Gotham didn't self-destruct or what-have-you, poisoning the city from the inside out without realizing it.

Yeah, Tim about summed it up. Jason liked that about the kid.

Tim continued, though. "They did something to, or with, my parents, and I need to figure out what it was. My parents were all kinds of jacked-up, but -"

With a shake of his head, Jason cut Tim off, holding his palm up. Jason could see the way Tim's frame pulled in on itself at the  _ mention _ of his parents, trying to hide from the world. "I get it. Parents fucking suck and you need to know that either way. You want closure. Have fun with that, Timmers, but again, what does that have to do with the Bat-Computer? We don't have much on the secret cult, or so I'd assume."

Silence befell the eerie cavern. It always had, and always would return to its silent roots, forgotten among the speed of the world.

He'd been reading too much Richard Siken, then. Pay attention, Jason, newbie detective in your peripherals, staring cluelessly at the Bat-Computer. "It, uh, it needs a password. The  _ Bat-Computer _ needs a password."

"What, is our tragic backstory moment over?" said Jason, maybe light-hearted, maybe not. He caught the way Tim glanced toward the display cases of all the old Robin uniforms, all illuminated.

He ignored the way he flinched when he caught on the sight of his own. He wasn't in that warehouse anymore, and he wasn't Robin anymore. There was a reason he asked Oracle to let him into the Cave rather than just enter himself because he couldn't be damned to hack the system again.

Because he didn't know the codes anymore. Because he was the Red Hood, and not Jason Todd-Wayne. You win some, you lose some, he supposed, but life was cruel in its victories and the trophies it took.

Like a life, or an identity, or a family.

Pay attention to Tim.

"O, could you let the kid in? I trust you can make sure he's not takin' sensitive info and that shit."

Oracle gave a dry laugh. "Isn't the point of being  _ on _ the Bat-Computer to take sensitive info? I'll watch what he's digging into."

"Figured you would."

By the time Jason had come up with that oh-so-clever quip, Tim had already gotten to work, standing next to the overdramatic bat-shaped chair rather than  _ daring _ to sit in it, clacking away at the keyboard in the way only hackers could.

He'd have an aptitude for it, if he tried; maybe he already has. Tim did seem to know more than he was letting on, and he must have some redeeming skills, lying or otherwise, if he managed to survive deep cover for two years with no back-up and a shitty plan at best.

Then again, if Jason didn't feel like looking on the bright side, Tim could be some ploy by some enemy of his (he had a few, he wasn't going to narrow it down right now), and that was why the math wasn't adding up.

When Jason looked up, Tim had two different windows open - both on the  _ League of Assassins _ of all things. "Timmers, what the fuck?"

"Don't call me that~" Tim sing-songed under his breath, still typing away on the keyboard, showing no signs of doing other than reading and geeking out over all the storage or something like that.

Look, Jason was academics, not computers. Computers did not make sense; he left all the gaming to Steph.

"This is where you tell me what you're doing. Get into the routine, Timbo, this is how we do it on the murder scene," Jason said, drawling his syllables and giving Tim every opportunity there was t get the reference. He showed no sign of doing so, and Jason sighed with an overdramatic puff of his chest.

Jason fucked around for a good five minutes, trusting Oracle to keep an eye on the kid's browser history (and he had to snicker at that, internally. Not something to do on the Bat-Computer, and especially not with company), messing with various trinkets that Bruce would throw a hissy fit over, tell him to stop fucking with before he got hurt.

And by the time he was done trying to climb the dinosaur or attempting to find a way to the dinosaur's head, there was a crash by the Bat-Computer and Jason was startled back to reality - the reality where there was an amateur at the helm of a fuckton of knowledge and Jason was the only physical person there to stop him from doing potentially dumb shit.

"Timbo? What happened? You good?"

When he glanced over, nothing had fallen, but Tim's knuckles were white against the edge of the desk, staring with wide-eyes up at the screen.

And when Jason got his ass into gear and glanced at the screen, he blanched too.

_ The League of Assassins and the Court of Owls? _

Tim had two windows pulled up, still; timelines. Where he pulled them from, Jason didn't know, but the different organization styles led him to believe Tim was comparing his own timeline of events about the Court with Bruce's timeline about the League.

There was a single month that was zoomed in on, bubbles marking what Tim had clearly feared. One half of the screen read  _ Ra's Al Ghul spotted in Gotham _ with a date next to it, while the other side, Tim's side, read  _ Parents disappear. No trace, no note. _

"You think the League is why your parents disappeared?" Jason asked, a whisper, a whisper in the same tone as a scared little boy who chased his mom halfway around the world only to find that she was leading him to the heart of danger.

It seemed Tim's parents had done the same in their own way.

Jason was going to  _ knock their teeth out _ with a goddamn  _ bullet _ if he ever, and he meant ever, saw the two wanna-be parents. He had semi-autos at all times; he could pull it off.

But Tim's face was hardened into a resolve that Jason had only seen in the worst of people, in the types of people that suited up at night with a bleeding heart to try and keep Gotham from collapsing within itself.

The people that lost something the night their family was gone.

Tim had a different version of being orphaned, alright, but Jason was going to hand it to him, he had the makings of a vigilante if Jason had ever seen it. And he had, multiple times over, with each different rendition getting more and more desperate, more and more tragedy lying on a road with good intentions.

"I need to find the League. I need to find what happened to my parents." Tim didn't shout, but he might as well with the way his voice echoed off the rocky walls, with the way the abandoned coffee mug on the desk shook with the weight of his proclamation.

Jason shook his head, slow, methodical, knowing his advice would be useless against Tim. Tim wasn't the same way he was; Tim was one hell of a lot smarter, that was for sure, but intelligence didn't make a  _ dent _ on emotion, and that they had in common. "You can't. Nanda Parbat isn't for kids like you, Tim."

Not the time for nicknames. Jason knew it was useless anyway.

"How do I get there?" Tim crossed his arms, turning to Jason with an upraised chin and more shaky confidence than teenage Jason had ever been able to muster.

He needs to stop comparing Tim to himself. Tim deserved to be his own person. Jason didn't know him well yet, but he wasn't going to make assumptions before Tim even had the chance to show him.

Because Jason wasn't going to be able to talk Tim out of going to see the League, but he would be able to protect him once he was there. The white streak in his hair and the green, Lazarus-altered eyes would give him away immediately, but semantics was semantics.

"You know what? We'll fly coach."

_

The thing about traveling to Nanda Parbat was that it was a hell of a lot more difficult when you weren't a rich kid with a private jet (or, say, bat-wing) to get you there, and flying coach only got you so far.

The flight was... long, to say the least. Neither Jason nor Tim packed anything; Jason wasn't going to try to smuggle an armory through customs when he was dealing with the League.

They brought him back to life; they wouldn't kill him. No, no, they would access what they had done, try to blame his nature on themselves in a way that made sense to them - as a  _ weapon. _

He was a curse unleashed like a blight upon the world if you were to ask Talia; and with that in mind, she wouldn't kill him, not while his existence still served her.

And if Tim came as a part of the deal, then he wouldn't be in any danger, either. The question was what Tim  _ wanted _ to do; it was his parents and his decision.

Jason was just there to make sure he didn't get beaten or blown up in the process, to keep time from looping in its own twisted way.

"Tim?" Jason started, his voice breaking on the syllable. They were squished together in the plane seats, nothing more than a duffel bag between them, mostly of things that could conveniently be made into weapons, or keepsakes.

Since Drake Manor was less than a mile away (rich people  _ neighbors, _ huh?), they'd stopped by with extreme caution to pick stuff up.

One of the only things Tim took was a stuffed lion. Jason didn't say anything, and Tim made a point to not show it to Jason during their rather awkward drive to the airport, with a stolen Porsche (not his stuff to break!).

God, it was almost laughable. They were on their way to one of the most dangerous places in the world, and they'd driven like a suburban family on their way to Disney World or something. One of the most dangerous places in the world, chock full of assassins and people very willing to kill them, and Jason was flying coach with a duffel bag and a kid he'd barely met.

Tim hummed, an acknowledgment under his breath of something, but Jason didn't bother figuring out what. They were about twenty-thousand feet in the air and climbing, too far in to back out now. Tim wouldn't back out, not with the twisted sense of loyalty to his parents stabbing him in the chest.

"The League, they're not like what you're expecting. And they don't show weakness.  _ You _ can't show weakness. It's like a death sentence, and you're, uh, well, you're not a trained assassin, you're a guy who stalked Batman."

"One day that'll be impressive to someone," Tim sighed, with a lop-sided smile trying to hide the worry on his face. He had a good poker face, Jason had to admit; one that he wouldn't recognize if he was people-watching in public, strangers to the weird rich kid with a sad life.

(He could be describing most of his family like that. _A rich_ _ kid with a sad life.) _

Jason shrugged, too smushed to do much else. "One day. But for now, stick by me, follow my lead. I... Know Talia, and Ra's. It's a long story, and it would take longer than these goddamn flights to explain it."

Yeah, Jason hated flying. He hated flying because it took forever and there were other people and he couldn't read on the plane because it made him nauseous. He'd left the flight schedule up to Tim.

He was the muscle here, not the itinerary guy. Tim had to do  _ something _ by himself.

_

Jason was never flying again. He'd, like, play cards with Talia and bet on a ride home because he fucking hated commercial flying with a passion, and it was the goddamn League of Assassins, they probably had a teleporter somewhere.

"Are you, uh, you good?" Tim asked, brows furrowed in quiet confusion in the same way Bruce used to look at him with concern when he was getting a little too rough as Robin; when he was witnessing something that seemed out of character for Jason, when he was trying to figure out why.

Fuck. It was like seeing Bats mirrored. Jason didn't like that.

Tim wasn't like that. He'd told himself he wouldn't, he wouldn't make assumptions or comparisons until Tim showed him who he was. It was only fair. But fair was more difficult than Jason had been expecting.

"Yeah, just lookin' forward to old memories," Jason sighed, running his fingers through his too-short hair, the streak of white in front mocking him as his fingers slid over it. Last time he'd gone to Nanda Parbat, it was in a coffin, and it wasn't a memory he liked to think about too much. "Figuring out how to keep you from dying and all that."

"We're just there to get the truth." Tim must've known he was lying to himself, because by the end of the sentence he was damn near silent, looking out the plane window rather than at Jason himself.

They were on their second of three or four connecting flights, and Jason, still, wanted to kill a man.

He didn't have his helmet, or his pistols, or  _ anything, _ really. Tim had... somehow managed to keep the bo-staff, though Jason didn't know how, and it sat in the duffel bag, mocking Jason. Tim couldn't even  _ use _ it.

Maybe flying just put him in a bad mood. Yeah, that was probably it.

"The truth has a price," Jason said eventually, leisurely, trying to keep his mind from jolting back to the past. "I don't figure you want to pay."

Tim shook his head, shaggy black hair (god, he really would make a perfect Wayne adoptee. Orphan, black-haired, blue-eyed, surprisingly pale) falling into his eyes; he made no move to push it back, so Jason did so with a scoff and a mumbled, "We are in public, you are not looking like a wreck."

Tim  _ had _ to crack a smile, tense as it was, and Jason considered it a victory. He smiled!

"I just want to figure out what happened. The League has those answers, so..."

"So you're going all Nancy Drew. Yeah, yeah, I've heard the spiel already, Timmers. Like I said, it has a price, and you're just going to follow my lead, and that'll be that. And I'm going to take your complimentary peanuts because I'm funding this exploration with my stolen credit card and spite."

Flight peanuts didn't even  _ taste _ good. Jason hated flying.

_

After their flight was over, Jason was bleary-eyed and craving the feeling of land under his boots so much that he may perhaps have run through the airport, flipping Tim off just to go outside and get a breath of fresh air.

And it was so,  _ so _ worth it, because it was freezing cold and  _ raining _ and there was pavement and muddy dirt and it wasn't an airplane and Jason was never going to help out another stray kid again if it meant airplanes.

By the time Tim had caught up with him, Jason was already half-soaked by the rain, and more than happy to be in the cold. "Are we gonna... catch the bus, or are you gonna walk us there? I would much prefer a bus."

"Sure you would," said Jason, a snicker on the tip of his tongue. "But with this handy-handy credit card not 'o mine, we'll be picking up some stuff first. Hope the Court kept you in good shape, 'cos no one ever goes to Nanda Parbat for a reason."

Tim just groaned, much in the same way a frustrated toddler did when their juice was taken away. The only difference was that  _ this _ frustrated toddler had to climb up a few mountains to reach his destination, and he didn't seem too happy with that.

Neither was Jason, but, again, didn't have a jet or anything. He should've stolen one. He needed to make friends with some pilots or something. Well, he knew Kyle, who knew Hal, but Hal was hardly a private-jet-that-Jason-could-steal type.

The rain had let up, at the very least, when they got to the general store, on the corner of nowhere and nothing; that's where they picked up those stupid puffy jackets that Jason hated, and more adept boots for Tim, and goggles, and there was an  _ entire _ ordeal over types of ski googles versus snowboarding goggles, and if Jason wasn't too invested in this mission, he would've drop-kicked Tim then and there.

Unfortunately, he may or may not have decided that the kid was not going to get killed, regardless of what happened with the League. He was more valuable than Tim, anyway.

And it wasn't worth it to kill uselessly; Jason knew that much about the League, had learned that much from them. Their code may be skewed in more ways than one, but there was honor among thieves and, apparently, assassins.

The code had loopholes, though, and that was where they had to be careful. That was if Tim didn't fall on his face in the snow before then.

_

"Jason Todd."

Jason's leisurely smile was more forced and tense than he was willing to admit. Then again, everything was forced when in enemy territory with a civilian on your side. "Talia. Long time no see, no?"

"Give or take two years. I hear you've carved out yet another living in Gotham."

"It's the fact that Gotham steals back what is taken from her, I suppose." Tim was hiding behind him, and Jason was pointedly not drawing attention to him, standing to his full height, and looking down on Talia with a grim expression.

Talia, however, was never one to be outdone, and despite being shorter than Jason and far more lithe than visibly muscular, she managed to be intimidating. With the sword by her side never leaving, it was impossible to view her as anything other than armed and dangerous. "I see you've brought company. What brings you up here? Surely not a wellness check."

"You'd be correct."

But Jason didn't explain, didn't elaborate, and Tim, who had fared rather well on their way up here, far more quickly than anyone in his position should've, stepped out from behind Jason with hesitant confidence plastered on his face.

Talia, again, crossed arms and a fixed glare, spoke before he had the chance. "A stray? You? That's not your game, Todd."

"It's a learned habit," Jason smiled, sarcastic, glancing around at the various windows surrounding the old structure, the gleaming red paint and the sinister whispers of behind closed doors sending a shudder down Jason's spine, though he wouldn't let the demon's daughter see. "I would say I learned it from  _ you. _ "

"I don't take in strays, Todd."

"You give them away, though."

Tim cut in before anything other than cold diplomacy could bubble. "The League of Assassins, four years ago, on December fourteenth. Gotham. What were you doing there?"

Oh, Tim... That wasn't how it worked.

Talia quirked a brow, at the shaking frame of a cold sixteen-year-old boy who was far less deadly than anyone there, though he'd held his own against the Court's assassins and managed to climb, if a bit slower, than Jason, through the snow and the rocky mountains.

There was something there, something bubbling underneath the surface, something that maybe Tim didn't know about, but Jason wasn't going to ask, and he wasn't going to investigate just yet. Whatever it was, it better keep Tim alive longer than it already had.

"It looks like it's been a long journey for you two," Talia hummed, glancing at them both from head to toe, from the snow boots to the red noses and the determination burning through everything else. Gotham born and bred; from the streets to mansions, Gotham built soldiers before it built children. "Would you like some tea? To kickstart whatever your  _ demands _ are."

While Tim was unsure, Jason stepped up, once again putting Tim in his shadow, and nodded decisively. "Don't expect us to stay long."

"And not even stop by to say hello? You might just stay longer than you expect, you realize."

Jason did realize. He and Tim were ill-prepared to bargain, but they weren't dead yet, whether on Talia's orders or Ra's, but the fact still stood. They were alive, and that was something.

The League of Assassins just happened to have more than one resurrected vigilante and a scrawny wannabe detective


	4. go fly a kite until you're tangled in the hanging tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim should've known he wasn't out of the woods yet, not with more parental mysterious looming in the horizon; Jason should've known the whole 'once a babysitter, always a babysitter' rule.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay but go listen to Leave Me Alone by IDKHow it's great and I love it and that's where the title for this chapter comes from!

Having tea with Talia al Ghul was different than Tim had expected.

For one, she wasn't the person he thought he'd be; she wasn't as colds and callous as she was cautionary and... He might even say kind.

It was unclear, though, with everything that was going on. From the ancient decor to the priceless artifacts and the ornately decorated halls, Nanda Parbat was a base to behold.

In the end, they'd ended up seated, on their knees, at a small table with a hot kettle between the three of them; Jason and him on one side, and Talia on the other. Wait, did he get to call Jason 'Jason' now? Or was he still supposed to call him Hood?

It would... probably be better if Tim didn't confuse himself, but that wasn't who he was as a person, so the confusion would persist until he found a suitable answer.

Nevertheless, Jason had taken off his domino mask when a hooded person had come up, bowed, and rather rudely taken Tim's stolen bo-staff, that he had worked very hard to get through customs without being accused of weapons smuggling or what have you.

"This isn't a pleasure visit, Talia," Jason said, eventually, keeping eye contact with the woman with no signs of backing down.

She hummed, passing out three teacups to the various three recipients. "I know it isn't, Jason. I'm not stupid, and you've already stated your intents."

Jason huffed, ever impatient and on a different plane, it seemed. Ironically, since Jason hated flying. "And you haven't stated yours. You have that look in your eye, which means we had an awful timed arrival, so what is it that you want? I'm not joining your League again."

Talia sighed, a heavy sound that made her shoulders sag before she corrected her posture; the sword at her side briefly touched the ground, a seemingly uncomfortable body suit clinging tight to her skin. "I don't want you to. The League does not need you, and you do not need the League."

"However...?" Tim said, knowing it was coming; he felt like an outsider to the conversation, and while he was, they were here because of  _ him _ and whatever he was accidentally making Jason do, he wanted everyone to know he was at least involved.

It wouldn't be right to do anything else.

Jason brushed him off, like a child at the dinner table who asked something the adults found unimportant or silly. He wasn't a kid at a family dinner, dammit! "The League doesn't need anything, but someone must if you're cutting to the chase already. Someone important. Someone that... Oh, God."

Talia's grim expression matched the thin, narrow set to Jason's eyes, a silent understanding Tim wasn't privy to; something that weighed heavily on the heart of two trained assassins, so it wasn't anything involving bloodshed. Unless, of course, the one in need of not-dying was someone they both cared about.

What the fuck would two assassins have in common?  _ Who? _ Weaponry? Tim had to admit, he was pretty sure Jason kissed his guns good night on weird nights, and he was semi-certain that the sword by Talia's side never  _ left _ there.

"It's Damian," Talia whispered, glancing around the room as though it wasn't safe for them to discuss this here, drinking tea that hadn't been poured yet.

It must be important for the host to pour the tea, considering Jason hadn't touched it and Talia kept leaning forward, as though to grab it but pulling back when she brought up new topics. The tea was like a peace offering, then. A common ground brought only for a deal to be made on even ground.

What a shame that Tim didn't like tea.

And who the hell was Damian? When he was skimming through the League's files on the Bat-Computer, he hadn't seen anything on a  _ Damian _ . Unimportant, or off the books?

"You know how my father is," Talia said, evenly, finally picking up the kettle and gesturing for Jason to slide his teacup over. "Jasmine is to your tastes, still?"

Jason nodded.

Talia continued pouring, the kettle unsteady as her hands shook with the words. The design on the pot was beautiful, a glossy depiction of a field of rabbits. It took Tim a moment to realize the red was because the painted boy was slaughtering the rabbits. "He pushes Damian, and while he should be pushed, he is not yet ready for some of the League's tests. He is not yet ready to be part of our organization, but my father is convinced that, due to his al Ghul heritage, he is ready. If he's not..."

"There's only one thing you would be this worried about." Jason wasn't talking to Tim, or Talia. He was talking to himself, coming to his own conclusion as he had earlier, the green of his eyes trying desperately to overtake the blue.

They had the same tint of green to their eyes, Tim noted dully, both Talia and Jason. Though the vibrant green in Talia's was closer to brown, and Jason's was far closer to green-blue. Pretty, sure, but full of the type of madness that Tim had tried his damnedest to stray away from when he was in the Court.

God, that was only a day ago. It felt like ages ago he was trying from the Talon, ages ago that he was on the goddamn Bat-Computer looking for different files.

But that was yesterday, and he'd spent a whole day flying, and another day or so fucking  _ hiking, _ and that made everything else become  _ two days ago _ rather than yesterday, but Tim had been far too busy trying to not get killed in a cult to pay attention to math class, and fuck that.

Tim was brought back to reality when Talia nodded, grim and curt, her own teacup shaking in her hands. If it was something that made an assassin shake, especially the daughter of the  _ League of Assassins' _ leader. He wanted no part of it.

But he brought himself here.

"The games," Talia whispered, a secret in her words that only Jason understood, the mutual language of fear and dread pooling together in a voice.

"Damian's not old enough for that, he's supposed to wait until he's fifteen - Ra's can't do that! Damian's not even the required age!"

"Who do you think made those rules, Jason?" Talia snapped, her knuckles white, though the teacup didn't shatter.

Jason hadn't touched his, steam wafting through the air with the scent of lost dreams and the distinct smell of, well, jasmine tea. Duh. Tim was not the brightest sometimes, he supposed. "Talia. You have to talk him out of it. Damian's not old enough to participate; it's a death sentence."

Talia quoted the air, her voice deeper and borderline silly when she spoke. "'If he's unable to win the games, he is undeserving of the Demon's Head and the al Ghul name.' I tried to explain to him that he and I both won our games when we were far more experienced than Damian, but he wasn't having it. Damian is participating, death sentence or not."

Jason groaned, carding his fingers through his hair, no doubt a stress-habit from years of constant pressure, from various mentors and idols. "You want me to stay, why? You tell me he's going to die, why? There's nothing I can do about that, and I'm not a glorified babysitter anymore."

Oh. That made sense. Tim pieced it together, Talia speaking of Ra's like her father and then speaking of Damian. and the quote. Damian was Talia's son, making him Ra's grandson and the future Demon's Head.

And... Jason had taken care of Damian, at some point, for some reason. Tim only had his Gotham history down, okay?

"You're not," Talia agreed, gesturing for Jason to take a drink. He did so, albeit hesitantly, only after he saw her take a sip. "You're all that is left of the All-Caste; I would have brought him to Ducra, but for obvious reasons, I can't do that. Leaving you as the remaining option."

"What would you have done if I hadn't shown up with a stray, Talia? Would you have left him to die?" Jason was deadly serious, and it showed. He didn't care to hear the sugar-coated answer.

Talia sighed, shoulders once again slouching for merely seconds in a moment of weakness. I don't know. Perhaps it would've been the best option to take him to his father, but now you're here."

"And why would I take the job, considering there's no pay for it?"

Jason was bluffing. Well, not bluffing in the traditional sense, but he was bluffing when it came to not taking the job, for one reason or another. His brows weren't so furrowed in constant answer, something soft to them/. He  _ cared _ about Damian.

Oh, shit. So Tim was intruding on what was becoming a  _ family _ thing. No wonder Taia hadn't poured him any tea. Not that he would want it, considering he loathed tea with a passion, but she hadn't poured any for him in the first place.

Just her and Jason.

"I figured you would ask. If the situation were different, I would've worked it out, but as it is..." Fuck. Long pauses were dangerous, and Tim's already dreading what she's about to say before she said it. "You want information, and I can provide that information. Information valuable to him, yes, but you've clearly brought the stray here for a reason. Would you like to know how you're going to acquire that information?"

"Ye -"

"Tim, stop," Jason huffed, staring Talia down.

Tim was just fucking dismissed like he was back-talking at the dinner table. He was getting tired of the shit coming from the boy who was only about three years older than him. Yeah, three years! Tim was sixteen, and he was nineteen, goddammit!

Still, he knew he was the naive child in this situation, so he let Jason continue without so much as a huff or a pout. "How does Damian's death sentence coincide with our agenda? What's your angle?"

"I would tell you if you let me." Another dramatic pause. Were all assassins like that, or was that just Talia? "If he's to acquire the information he wants, - and listen closely, Timothy - then he'll participate in the games as well. If he lasts until the remaining three, he shall be rewarded with what he came here for."

There's something so sinister snaking around the words, making Tim's stomach grow cold and nauseated at the very thought, that he didn't even ask about how she knew his name. It didn't matter.

He didn't know what the games were, but he knew that he wanted no part in them if the trained assassin from birth was shaking at the mere thought of her son participating in them. And he was probably also a trained assassin!

Tim was just some kid from Gotham city who'd joined a cult (that now wanted his head)!

Jason didn't seem to think the idea was preposterous, though, humming, mulling the idea over in his head. "Well-played, Talia, well-played. You know there's no way I can say no."

"Don't I get a say?" Tim asked, vaguely panicked, trying his best to hide it, because he was in a room with two highly-skilled assassins and they didn't show their emotions, probably because their lives literally depended on it.

His would, too. Soon.

"Do you want the information on your parents or not?"

Wait, wait... He'd never, he'd never said anything about his parents. He had asked what the League was doing in Gotham four years ago, but not about his parents.

Tim swallowed, weighing the options in his head. He had none, he realized. If he went back to Gotham, he would have to worry about the Court again, and he wouldn't have the information he needed, and it would all be a waste. He couldn't do that. He  _ wouldn't. _

"I'll - I'll do it. Whatever it is, I'll do it, and Jason will help. Right?"

While Tim didn't miss the dark glare thrown his way, the one that said  _ you're in over your head, kid, _ he didn't back down. He'd been in over his head since he was fourteen and searching for answers to something that just didn't make sense, and it was a trait he'd kept over the years.

He'd never know if he didn't take the risk, take the chance to be something more than he was. That sounded a lot like a mad scientist babble, and he was no scientist, but he was determined, so he supposed it worked.

Jason sighed, a new weight on his shoulders; not one that Tim had put there, but forced upon him, and he pretended that he didn't feel responsible. Again, he was the only fucking reason they were here in the first place. "I suppose you have a deal, Talia. Do we get accommodations, or are you going to throw us to the wolves?"

"You know the wolves hate it up here, don't be ridiculous. Of course, you'll have a place to stay; I'll have quarters prepared minutely. Damian doesn't know you're here, nor about what we've discussed."

"You... haven't told him?"

"I assumed it would be better to fashion it differently for him; he's as stubborn and prideful as my father, though that's no fault other than mine. He misses you. He'll listen when you tell him."

_

"You didn't tell me you, like, trained with the League," Tim whispered, walking briskly next to Jason,, accompanied by two hooded assassins who hadn't said a word since they'd entered; most likely following the age-old protocol of  _ observe, learn. _

Jason shrugged, tight and uncomfortable. "It didn't come up. Until now, obviously. Some shit happened when I was younger, they made my mind... er, they brought my soul back."

"Do I even want to ask?"

"From the Bat-stalking, as you put it, I think you already know the answer."

Tim winced, pretending to observe the frankly  _ stunning _ architecture around the base. Nanda Parbat was certainly a wonder; it was a shame it was far too filled with assassins to be admired at its fullest/. "Sorry. You, uh, you died. You died and you came back but they brought your soul back? How is that even possible? You were, like - like fully dead!"

Jason hummed, and Tim's always known when to stop and he never did when he should. "Got the autopsy scars to prove it. I woke up in my coffin. Dunno how, don't need to, but they dumped me in the Lazarus Pit and made me a glorified babysitter, so that's that."

He should stop asking questions about Jason's death now. He needs to stop asking questions. He's not going to stop.

Instead, Tim was wide-eyed, in the sort of childish wonder and curiosity he thought he'd outgrown when he joined a cult. "Lazarus Pit? What's that? Is that the reason your eyes are so - like, why your eyes have the same green as Talia?"

A curt nod. Jason didn't want to talk about it, and he was going to get less and less responsive the more Tim asked. But he had to!

He didn't say anything more, though,  _ staring _ at Jason, waiting for him to say something, and eventually, Jason relented, when they were stopped in front of an undecorated door with the two assassins standing patiently next to them, waiting for them to enter. Creepy.

"The Lazarus Pit grants miracles, yes, but there's nothing in this world that can grant miracles without a price. The Lazarus Pit takes the darkest parts of you and makes them burn away at everything else, until you're in a rage-filled haze, tearing down everything in your way with nothing more than a wide-eyed grin. I call it Pit madness. You better hope my eyes stay blue, Timmers."

Tim swallowed, biting back any sort of response or question that he could muster.  _ Better hope my eyes stay blue, Timmers.  _ He didn’t even correct the nickname. The more you know, he supposed, but he didn’t like to think about  _ what if, what if.  _

An analytical mind was great until he started thinking about all the horrible things that could happen because of cause-and-effect. And the  _ cause  _ here started with green eyes, and - 

“But we’re not thinking about that now,” Jason hummed, snapping Tim out of the distant reverie he’d stranded himself in. “Right now, I’m chewing you out because you’re fucking  _ stupid,  _ Timbo, do you even realize what you got yourself into?” 

Truthfully, no, but instead of answering, Tim ducked into the room the assassins had led him to, no comment from Jason; an uncomfortable silence wedged between them like a knife or a few dumb decisions. 

It was a nice room, if you took away the weapons lining the wall, decorative, but lethal all the same. Anything could be used as a weapon, and Tim had no doubt that the residents of Nanda Parbat knew that far better than they knew social etiquette. 

Like taking weapons out of rooms before showing guests to said rooms. 

“I don’t. I have no fucking clue what I got myself into, but it’ll get me answers and it’ll help you save, uh, Damian. That’s about as good as it can get, right?” 

Jason’s jaw, if possible, tightened more than it already was. Did he ever relax? Or was that a  _ I’m in enemy territory and my former boss (boss?) just asked me to be a babysitter again  _ face? “No. It’s not. You’re going to get killed, but hey, at least you’ll be seventeen, right?” 

“I’m sixteen?” Tim said, as though it was a question, tilting his head to the side and ignoring the way his nearly frozen hair fell in front of his eyes. It needed a trim, considering there were icicles in it from his breath alone. He’d forgotten about the cold. 

“Yeah, and the games are in about nine months if I remember correctly. Nine months to make you a trained assassin? I don’t think so.” 

Oh. Oh, nine months wasn’t that short; they’d have time. Maybe Jason was just paranoid, or doubted his abilities; Tim had managed to deflect a Talon and hike with Jason, and he didn’t think usual people were able to do that. 

Then again, there was a lot in his life that he’d either under or _overestimated_ , and he was getting sick and tired of the surprises. “That’s nine months. Nine months is more than enough.” 

“Not for the games. You’re too cocky, kid. The Court didn’t teach you nothin’ compared to the League, and if  _ Talia  _ thinks that Damian isn’t ready, then you certainly aren’t.” 

“She said she won the games when she was younger.” 

“Younger, but trained since she was a child. You’re a rich kid with missing parents; there’s a difference. Damian climbed a mountain with a broken wrist when he was four. You nearly got assassinated two days ago. Three? Three days ago.” 

Jason had a point. God, he had a point and Tim didn’t want to admit that; Talia al Ghul was an assassin born and raised, who was willing to defy everything she’d known for her son’s survival, going so far as to ask an enemy (well, somewhat ask) to help. 

And Tim was a rich kid from Gotham who was sad about his parents missing. 

“It’s - we’ll figure it out,” Tim mumbled, avoiding eye contact. There was nothing else for him to say. nothing left he  _ could  _ say until the logistics were going to be figured out. 

_ 

Tim was getting more and more sick and tired of being confused as the minutes passed. He’d gone from knowing exactly what he was doing, a detective trying to figure out what happened to his parents, to a confused teenager about to get himself killed in an assassin’s game in two - three? - days flat. 

Beyond that, sitting in a tiny room waiting on Jason to come back was proving tedious, and Tim didn’t have anything to entertain himself with other than his overflowing cauldron of thoughts, one of which he wasn’t opening. 

There was far too much going on in the worlds of  _ what the fuck  _ and  _ what did I do?  _ for Tim to even  _ think  _ of sacrificing more of his time to the bloody event of going through his head. So, instead, he waited, examining the walls for anything more than weaponry and wallpaper. 

It’s too much and not enough in the slightest. Enough to weaponize, but not enough to characterize, to become anything more than another room in another place in another city on the same planet.

Then again, the rooms at Drake Manor had the same issue, so Tim supposed he should be used to it by now. 

By then, the doors were opening again, and Tim was more than concerned when he heard another set of footsteps; Jason didn’t stomp around, the assassins didn’t, so clearly the two of them were trying to make their entrance known. 

Tim’s brain didn’t commute for a few seconds before he registered the short, scowling boy, who must’ve been around eleven or twelve, had to be  _ Damian.  _ Despite the snarl on his face, it honestly looked like Tim could sit on him and keep him incapacitated for hours. “Uh… No wonder Talia was worried.” 

The kid,  _ Damian,  _ made a sound with the front of his teeth like he was trying not to sigh-growl because that was  _ weird.  _ Like a… a  _ tt.  _ “This is Drake, I presume? Scrawny.” 

“You don’t need to look like a men’s magazine to have strength, Damian,” Jason said, almost  _ chiding,  _ like he really was taking on the role of an overbearing nanny in a coming-of-age Victorian Era novel, which certainly wasn’t Tim’s niche when he had the time to read. 

Totally. 

Damian huffed. “I’m well aware. However, he isn’t formidable, and I’m assuming my earlier assumption will be proved correct.” 

“He sounds like my science textbook,” Tim said, immediately glancing toward Jason rather than the child in question, if only because Damian didn’t match his mother at  _ all  _ in terms of intimidation. 

And, well, Jason was the only one who knew what was going on, and Tim was more than certain of that. 

Jason, too, seemed to know it was his place to explain everything, having been backed into that corner like a wounded animal. 

Though Damian seemed to loathe it, he sat on the bed, a katana sitting in a scabbard by his side, out of Tim’s view but no doubt there, sitting uncomfortably next to the armor Damian was already wearing.

Then, it was only Jason standing, with crossed arms and a perpetual grimace stuck on his face, like you usually got when random kids showed up at your house with assassins on their tail and then got roped into being a babysitter. “So, Damian. Tim. You’re both going to be participants in next year’s  _ games. _ ” 

Tim wasn’t coming into this information suddenly, so his reaction was to be excited; dead eyes akin to a teenager in math class with a test next week. Subtle intrigue, but nothing out of the ordinary. 

Damian, on the hand - his eyes went as round as Tim’s old cat when she saw the Christmas tree up when he was five. 

You know, he hadn’t seen a Christmas tree  _ or  _ Miss Scraper since he was five, actually. 

Regardless, he tuned back in, focusing primarily on Damian’s startled reaction; information was important in places of hostility, and Damian radiated so much hostility Tim could make breakfast on it. “I am - I am not of age to compete in the games, Todd. You are  _ aware  _ of this.” 

“That I am, kid. And I am  _ well  _ aware that I am here  _ because  _ your mother wants to keep you out of it, but she figures that teaching you how to survive is more likely to succeed than getting you out of it.” 

With the blow to his pride, Damian’s jaw tightened, glaring green eyes staring down Jason, waiting for a different truth that would never come. There was meaningful silence, but Tim wasn’t well-versed in  _ Jason: The Unspoken  _ yet. 

Jason continued without further glare-offs. “So, I’m teaching the both of you how to keep from getting murdered on sight, you understand?” 

_ More than.  _ “What the fuck are the games, anyway?” 

“Of course you’d rely on vulgar language,” Damian scoffed. “There’s most likely no use in wasting your time splitting attention, Todd. You  _ surely  _ recognize this.” 

For all of his concern, Tim had to admit he laughed when Jason mimed knocking on his head, mimicking a hollow sound…  _ somehow.  _ “He might just have the common sense you’re lackin’, Dami. You can be the muscle, he can be the brain.” 

“I am not stupid and foolish!” God, that kid could light up a goddamn room with his temper. Tim almost wanted to see how far Jason could push it, but with Damian’s hands gripping tight enough around the hilt of his katana for his knuckles to go white, that wasn’t Tim’s best idea. “Do  _ not  _ call me that.” 

“It’s hopeless,” said Tim, shrugging. Might as well play nice guy, though he was certain it wouldn’t stay a one-sided rivalry for long. “At least there’s less creativity with yours. I think, so far, I’ve got  _ Timmers, Timbo, Timbers,  _ and, obviously,  _ Tim. _ ” 

“All foolish and derivative.” 

“Let’s hope you never meet  _ Nightwing, _ ” Jason snorted, and neither Tim nor Damian did anything other than blink at him in quiet confusion, quelling their complaints and giving him a further chance to explain. “The games are basically the Hunger Games, except with Assassins and less Snow. I think the author had a history with the League. Anyway, the Games are… the Games are what separates the strong from the weak, the exemplary from the strong, etcetera, etcetera, you get the picture. The objective is to hold onto a bronze dagger for as long as possible until only five participants remain.” 

“Do the others…?” Tim gestured vaguely at the ceiling, avoiding worried glances to the weaponry lining the halls. 

“Die? No,” Jason snorted. “They might, but usually only around twenty participants die. It takes about a month to wheedle down to five participants, but once that has been achieved, the Games take a turn. The one in possession of the dagger keeps it, but is now given a new destination, that they  _ must  _ take the dagger to in order to win. Everyone is told of this, and it’s up for grabs who wins, honestly.” 

Tim’s brain wasn’t functioning all too well with Assassins Hunger Games circulating through his head. “So it’s like… A baking show but if you lose…?” 

Damian snapped, impatient - literally, not metaphorically,  _ snapped in Tim’s face.  _ “If you lose you bring dishonor upon your name, and the League does not condone unworthy members within its prestigious ranks.” 

“You basically get a shitton of stuff to do that no one wants to do, if you don’t die,” Jason clarified. “But the reason it’s important; is that the winner is usually selected to become the al Ghul’s personal assassin, one of the highest honors; in this case, it’s a chance for Damian to prove himself as a  _ true al Ghul. _ ” 

Talk about complicated family ties. Tim’s parents might’ve been… neglectful, to say the least, but they didn’t force him to participate in death games when he was eleven. What the  _ fuck?  _

Mechanically, he nodded. No air was truly making its way to his lungs, and he didn’t know why, forcing himself to take a deep breath with furrowed brows. 

His body did  _ not  _ like the sudden change of events, and certainly didn’t like being aware of  _ new  _ events. 

“Timmers? You good? Not poisoned? Shit, you didn’t, like - I dunno, see any Owly shit here?” 

Tim shook his head, still refusing to speak while his lungs figured themselves out. “N - No? No, I don’t - no. Continue. I want to know.” 

While he was hesitant, Jason didn’t refuse. “The rest of the League has the same training over the next few months that they’ve always had, have always anticipated. You two, though, are like middle schoolers on their first day of PE, and they didn’t bring the right shoes. We’ll get you the right shoes.” 

“That was a  _ terrible  _ metaphor, Todd,” Damian said, thumbing his nose at Jason with distaste, posture straight and tall, but Tim didn’t notice the way he leaned toward Jason like Tim was an enemy or something. 

God, what kind of childhood did this kid  _ have? _ The most concerning Tim had done before his parents disappeared was stalk Batman and Robin by roof-top at night since he was seven, but that wasn’t… Wasn’t something he liked to think back on. 

He still did it, sometimes, but it wasn’t like he was going to have the time now. Oh, and you know,  _ Jason motherfucking Todd  _ was teaching him how to  _ not die.  _

That was… not how he’d wanted to meet his hero. Then again, it wasn’t how he’d met his hero, and - Ugh. Tim didn’t have the time to go down memory lane, Jason was talking and he wasn’t paying attention and if he kept doing this then he was going to die and - 

“Five A.M. sharp, every day, you understand me?” 

Tim nodded automatically for the second time in the last two minutes. 

Focus, Tim, focus. 

_ 

“Tim, you’re not  _ focusing.”  _ Fucking ironic, considering it was the one thing Tim had been telling himself for days now. 

His bo-staff barely  _ glanced  _ off Jason’s side, a graze that wouldn’t make a cut if he’d had even the sharpest blade in the world. 

Jason’s elbow collided with Tim’s chin, his torso twisted away from Tim’s grasp and the move was over before Tim had the chance to recognize it, Jason’s arm now pressing against his windpipe with more force than necessary. 

Waiting for Tim to tap-out, to give up like everyone knew he would, some rich kid from the City that could barely throw a punch. And he did, tapping twice on Jason’s forearm and refusing to give the satisfaction of rubbing his throat and gasping for breath. 

Jason shook his head in what was certainly  _ not  _ approval. “Mall security guards are better than this, Timmers. Step up your game or step into that early casket.” 

Tim  _ could  _ make a fucked-up joke, but he didn’t want Jason fired up. He wanted him  _ cocky.  _

At least, he hoped so, or else he was never going to get the hang of this; Jason wanted him to focus solely on developing his physical abilities for the Games, but Tim had a single thing above  _ any  _ of them, and he wasn’t going to give it up. His  _ head.  _

He’d figured out Batman and Robin’s identities when he was nine; had snuck out with them for years without them ever noticing. He’d infiltrated a cult following a disappearance no one else had noticed. 

He was  _ smart,  _ god fucking dammit, and he wasn’t giving it up!

“I’m sorry,” Tim said, crossing his arms, letting his voice break in actual, true exhaustion. No good lie came out of  _ nothing;  _ a bastardized truth was better, or worse, depending on how you looked at it than something made up in seconds. “It’s just - you’ve had a  _ lot  _ more experience than me, okay?” 

“So have they.” Jason threw his thumb in the general direction of  _ everywhere,  _ no doubt talking about the League’s trainees. “So get your game together, and try again. You’re not going to die because you made some stupid decision, are you?” 

He was taunting him, trying to get him to take the bait and go on the defensive. With the way they were situated, their sparring sessions going in circles for hours while Tim got his ass handed to him, Tim was always on defense, while Jason barely broke a sweat with the offense. 

It was more than frustrating. But he was going to try his own goddamn method this time, and see if he fared any fewer bruises from getting his ass thrown onto the mat with less grace than he was willing to admit. 

“I’m not makin’ stupid decisions anymore,” Tim mumbled, more to himself than Jason, and while he didn’t know whether it was a lie or not, he took the predictable moment to lunge at Jason, getting just close enough to attack - and dropping into a crouch and throwing his leg out. 

He didn’t try to knock Jason’s legs out from under him, but instead hooked his own behind Jason’s knee, pulling it forward and trying to shift so he could push it back into place, a painful way to get Jason to fall, but he wasn’t quick enough and Jason adjusted, hitting the ground with a palm and sending the other one toward Tim’s face. 

Tim’s nose caught the brunt of it as he leaned back, scrambling out of the way, moving too quickly, and slamming his forehead into Jason’s nose with a resounding  _ FUCK  _ from the both of them. 

Jason’s nose was bleeding when he stood up, Tim rolling out from under him and swallowing the nerves that had made a living in the back of his throat. “Damn, kid, that was… better than I expected.” 

“Is that a compliment?” 

“You would’ve been dead by now if I were an assassin, but it was a step up from mall cop, I’ll give you that. Where did you learn that?” 

_ I guessed all of it,  _ Tim meant to say, but the words stuck, a slimy  _ lie  _ to it that he couldn’t place; the confusion must’ve been written on his face, because Jason waved off his question, but it wasn’t dropped entirely - they both knew that. “Whatever. I don’t care. Just keep it up. I’m going to go see how Damian’s faring; try some kicks with that punching bag I gave you, yeah? Leg strength is important, you noodle.” 

Yeah, he wasn’t doing leg day with that weighing on his shoulders. 

He  _ didn’t  _ guess all of that. It was a gut reaction, a type of,  _ I got myself into this mess and I’m getting myself out of it,  _ using Jason’s weight and stature against him like Tim was good enough to  _ know  _ how to do that. 

He wasn’t. He was some rich kid from Gotham covered in enough bruises and sore muscles to make Superman wince. 

So how the  _ fuck  _ did he do that? 

Kicking punching bags was a hell of a lot easier when he imagined there was a face on them; like those stupid fucking Court masks that had more than plagued him for years, or his own, or… Or his parents’. 

They were the reason he was fucking  _ here.  _ They were the reason he was so hellbent on finding the truth that he was tearing apart everything he’d ever known, everything he’d ever done, just to find the fucking truth. 

He was going to get killed in the goddamn Hunger Games, and it was  _ their  _ fault. For leaving, for disappearing, for leaving him alone. 

They deserved it. Fake, punching bag them did, at the very least, and Tim pretended he didn’t feel more relieved than he had in a while an hour later, when he was drenched in sweat, and his legs were so tired of kicking and running and lunging they were  _ numb.  _

All Jason had done was make a comment in passing, something like,  _ “we’ll make a man out of you yet,”  _ and humming a song under his breath, while Damian tactfully threatened him with death via glare from across the open training area. 

Tim was… warming up to the idea of spending nine months like this. 

It was the type of situation you never got accustomed to, but with sweat sticking to his forehead and Jason far from being out of tricks, it was the type of routine he could get into without forgetting who he was, without forgetting his goal; the type of routine that kept him from getting off track. 

And the type of routine that made it more likely for him to stay alive when he went off on his own. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... spare comments ??? spare comments PLEASE???

**Author's Note:**

> <3 tell me what u think! and u can find me at @lacklusterdc over on tumblr !


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